


the dark life you live

by LilyEllison



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elektra Natchios Lives, Multi, OT3, Post-Defenders AU, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyEllison/pseuds/LilyEllison
Summary: Elektra wakes up after the Midland Circle collapse with her memories intact but the man she loves lost forever. At Matt’s apartment, she finds Karen — someone who shares her grief, and maybe much more. And then Matt turns up alive after all. Post-Defenders AU.
Relationships: (eventually), Elektra Natchios/Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios/Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Karen Page, will earn the M rating eventually too
Comments: 49
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quietshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietshade/gifts).



Elektra was drowning in light.

She didn’t know how long she’d been without consciousness. But this time, when she came back to herself, there was no stone chamber, no strange woman, no gaping hole where her past had been.

She remembered everything.

_Everything_.

She was still alive. And if she was still alive—

_Matthew_.

She tried to raise her head but she could hardly move. Her eyes darted around wildly but all she saw was water and garbage and sky. He was gone.

She’d finally done it. She’d finally snuffed out his light.

The Black Sky had swallowed the sun, and the light all around her was a poor substitute for his warmth.

She shivered.

She ached.

She—

* * *

She woke again at night.

She still didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there, but she knew _who_ she was.

_Elektra. That’s your name — Elektra. What have they done to you?_

His voice echoing in her ears, she looked frantically again for Matthew. She could sit up now, with effort. She was wet and cold and she hurt, god how she hurt, the pain more dazzling than the city in the distance.

She needed to look for him.

She dragged herself to her feet, ignoring the thousand needle stabs of pain with every movement.

It took her hours to get there, to pull herself up from the riverbank, from the trash and the muck, and limp along the streets. Even weak and aching, it was not hard for her to stay hidden, to avoid notice. She was the darkness, and the darkness was her.

Somehow, she made it up to the roof of his building. Somehow she made it inside, silent without trying to be silent.

Though she made no noise herself, what she heard was unmistakable. Misery. Weeping.

She wanted to be relieved, she wanted to snatch just one second of peace, but she knew immediately that it wasn’t him. It was mourning _for_ him.

For a moment, she thought she would collapse in a heap. But she kept standing. She was always left standing. She’d failed at death twice. She’d never be knocked down. She would go on, forever and ever, until even her tears rusted on her face.

She was the Black Sky.

* * *

She should leave. She should disappear back into the night. What could she bring to anyone but more grief?

But the pain was too strong now. She had used every last ounce of her strength only to find there was nothing at the end of the journey. She couldn’t take another step.

But her feet moved anyway, soundlessly, through the eerie yellow light of the billboard outside to his bedroom.

She almost smiled at the way the scene played out in reverse — this time, the startled blonde in the bed and Elektra in the doorway.

But no Stick. And no Matthew. Because, of course, she had destroyed her entire family. The hint of smile faded away.

The blonde jumped to her feet, letting out a gasping cry, a crumpled tissue in her hand.

“Who—?” But then Elektra watched as hope as bright as the sun spread over her face.

_Karen_. The name came to her then. The blonde was Karen.

“Matt?” she called loudly and she began to move toward Elektra, toward the living room.

“He’s not here,” Elektra said, in a voice that sounded as dead as she was supposed to be.

Karen’s face changed swiftly — hope crumbling into agony, agony growing into suspicion. “Why are you here?” she asked, in a tone that seemed to Elektra more curious than afraid. “What did you do to him?”

Elektra choked back a laugh, her vision blurring with hot tears.

“I killed him,” she said.

And then she sobbed.

And then, finally, she fell.

* * *

It should have been so easy to pretend.

She had fallen asleep on Matthew’s bed that day, the day she’d started to see the first pinpricks of light poking through the dark blank that was her past.

Waking up here now, she should be able to pretend she’d never left this bed, never left this room. That it was all just a nightmare, and now that her memories were really, truly back, she could find him, she could save him. From the Hand. From her. From the Black Sky.

He didn’t have to die.

She was so good at pretend. She’d played it her whole life.

Why couldn’t she pretend now?

The blonde— _Karen_ —had something. Water. Her throat ached for it. How long had it been since she’d tasted clean water?

“I don’t know what to do,” Karen was saying. Elektra had to focus hard to stop the words from swimming, to piece them together in her mind.

“Do I call the police in Harlem and tell them that you’re here? Call the goddamn switchboard at Rand Enterprises?...You probably need a hospital, but I tried to check your pulse and you don’t—I don’t think you have...Oh, god, this is so fucked up.”

Elektra reached weakly for the water, which Karen seemed to have forgotten about. Karen bit her lip and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Elektra whispered after taking a sip.

“Did you really kill him?” Karen murmured back brokenly, her face saying clearly that she needed answers more than anything else.

“I wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t leave me. He...he was holding onto me when...”

Karen’s eyes squeezed shut and she swallowed hard before opening them again. “Why—why wouldn’t you leave?”

“I’m the Black Sky.”

“What does that _mean_?”

But Elektra had no answer for that. Not one that could be put into words.

* * *

The blonde didn’t call the police. Or Danny Rand. Or the hospital.

She made soup.

She brought a bowl to Elektra when she floated to the surface again, in the glow of the lamplight. It was awkward, sitting up to eat. The pain roared.

“I—I’m Karen,” the blonde said, almost apologetically.

“I know,” Elektra said. She sipped the tiniest bit of broth.

“I think...I should probably check you for injuries.”

Elektra shook her head. “I’m healing. I’m...different now.”

Karen looked at her for a long moment.

“I know I should tell someone about you. But...I don’t think the normal rules apply here. And...you’re obviously...important to—to Matt.”

“No,” Elektra countered, a sudden memory bringing a little smirk to her lips. “That’s you.”

Karen looked at her, bewildered. Elektra couldn’t help but stare at her face, at the naked emotion in her eyes.

“That’s what he said about you,” Elektra clarified, breaking away from Karen's gaze. “‘ _She_ is important to me.’ I’ll admit I was rather jealous at the time.”

Her voice came out smoothly, archly, and she sounded so much like herself, her old self, her _Elektra_ self that she was almost afraid. She had been made into a weapon, her very personhood had been stolen from her, and now it was just _back_?

Karen’s features were full of confusion as well. Her eyes were far away, her head moving back and forth, as if she was rejecting everything around her.

“If you made it out, maybe...”

Elektra closed her eyes, took a deep breath that lit up her ribs with pain. “As I said, I’m different now. I’m not sure what it would take for me...to die.” She sighed, her eyes now trained on her lap. “Matthew, for all his belief otherwise, was only human.”

The door was closing behind Karen before Elektra was able to look back up.

* * *

“Did you find him?” Elektra asked when Karen returned the next afternoon. She hid the hope that sparked in her chest behind a cool mask, made her voice almost mocking.

“I checked hospitals. Made some calls. Nothing yet,” Karen said, a sharp, defensive edge to her words. “They’re still digging.”

Elektra had managed to shower off the blood from her skin, to comb the mud from her long hair and to braid it. She’d pulled on some of Matthew’s things, a shirt and drawstring pants that were much too big and far too painful to be wearing. But she had nothing else, and she deserved the shame that burned in her. She had stolen his life and she had the nerve to—

Karen was watching her closely, a funny look on her face. “I can...get you some clothes.”

Elektra just shrugged uncomfortably. She knew why Karen was helping her. Her lofty sentiment about what Matthew would want was just that — sentiment. She might even believe it, but what was really driving her was her need to know. And Karen didn't understand that the ways she thought she was helping were no use to Elektra. The police, the Iron Fist, these were mere nuisances to the Black Sky.

But the soup. The water. The steely determination to find him, even if it made no rational sense—

Those things meant something.

“You have questions,” Elektra said quietly.

“Yes,” Karen said, surprised. Perhaps she had prepared for a lengthy buildup.

“I doubt the answers that I have will satisfy you.”

“I think I want to hear them anyway.” Karen looked around the room nervously, then pulled over the chair in the corner to sit near the bed. Elektra half-expected her to pull out a notebook or a tape recorder.

“Foggy said...you knew Matt from college?” Karen began tentatively.

“Franklin? Does he know I’m…?”

“No,” Karen said, running her hand through her hair. “I haven’t told anyone. Yet.”

Elektra let the pause spool out. “Yes,” she said finally. “Matthew was in college when we...fell in love. It ended badly.”

“That day...you were here.” Karen didn’t have to explain what she meant.

“We’d been fighting the Hand. I was injured. I almost died.” Elektra pressed her lips together. “I did die, later.” Karen breathed in like she was going to interrupt, but Elektra ignored her — she couldn’t stop now that she’d started. “It was the only good thing I’ve ever done. The Hand took it from me. They took everything. And now he’s gone.”

Whatever Karen had been about to say, she clearly forgot it at Elektra’s final words. “I don’t believe he’s dead,” Karen said, her voice calm but her eyes snapping with blue fire.

Elektra’s spine thrilled with the energy of it, but she kept her face impassive. “Wanting something doesn’t make it true.”

“Of course not. But you do have to have evidence — a body, a witness, _something_. You don't know for sure he's gone, or you wouldn't have dragged yourself here half-dead to look for him.”

“No. I killed him.”

“You don’t know that.”

Elektra laughed without humor. “What do you know of death? I've made it with my hands since I was a child.”

And Karen’s head ducked down for a second, but then she met Elektra’s gaze levelly. The sun had shifted since she’d arrived and now it was catching on the strands of her hair, turning them a glowing gold.

“I know enough,” she said darkly.

* * *

Elektra’s body was knitting itself back together. She could _feel_ it. It was unsettling, but useful. She felt stronger with every passing hour. Within a day or two, she no longer craved long stretches of sleep. The pain receded and was replaced by restlessness.

She knew she should leave. She should go away and never desecrate his home with her presence again. But something pinned her in place. Maybe she was still holding on to hope that Matthew was alive. Or maybe it was—

The next time that Karen turned up, though, Elektra concealed herself near the roof access. Perhaps she was testing out the idea of disappearing. Or maybe she was just a coward.

Karen put down the bag she was carrying — probably the clothes she’d promised — and walked around the rooms. “Elektra?” she called and a knot tied itself in Elektra’s stomach. She’d never heard Karen use her name before.

Finally, Karen stopped beside the couch, still looking around. “I’ve decided...I’m going to keep paying the rent,” she announced to the room. “You...you can stay here, if you need to. I’ll be coming by...for the mail.”

There was something about the line of Karen’s spine that made Elektra’s own flare with pain. How much weight was she carrying on her shoulders? Hope only made things worse, made the grief shift and bunch and tilt unexpectedly.

Elektra didn’t want to cling to hope — she wanted to shoulder her heavy, steady load and move ahead. She wanted action.

As soon as Karen was gone, Elektra raided the bag for clothes that actually fit. And as soon as she was dressed, she left the apartment.

* * *

This time, she didn’t break the glass. She was the Black Sky — breaking and entering was beneath her. She invaded.

The boxing gym looked exactly the same. The lockers, the bags, the photos on the walls. The ring.

She wasn’t prepared for the way the memories slammed into her, like something physical. Like they were angry with her for forgetting them — _they were stolen, they were taken from me, I didn’t forget_ — and so they were forcing her to relive them in vivid detail.

It was so much. Too much. To remember his hands and his lips and the way that he loved her. He’d loved her. And she’d loved him. She’d never loved anyone, never wanted to love anyone, but she _loved_ him.

And she wanted to cry about it. To cry for all she was and all she never got to be, but her eyes were dry. She wondered for a fleeting second if Karen would cry, if she knew. If she knew how much life had been in Elektra once, before her heart stopped beating. If she knew the little girl Elektra had been, before she became the boogeyman from Stick’s war stories.

But Elektra pushed the thought from her head. No one had ever pitied her, the spoiled rich girl, the remorseless killer. Even Matthew. He'd prayed for her instead, for her everlasting soul. And what a joke that had turned out to be. She’d died, and she remembered neither harps nor brimstone. Only nothingness. And she’d sent him there. Alone.

She turned to the nearest bag and slammed her fist into it, hearing the satisfying _thwunk_. Yes, this would do. This was better than tears and shame. She could hurt. She could make other people hurt.

She cleared her mind, and she trained her body.

* * *

For the next several days, that was all Elektra did. She trained, and she slept in Matthew’s bed, hugging his pillow tight to her chest, and she trained more.

She hid herself away when Karen visited the apartment — Karen never saw her. But Elektra saw Karen.

Usually Karen came in the daylight, in the afternoon, but once she was still in Matthew’s kitchen after sunset, throwing out the food beginning to rot in the refrigerator. When she left, walking alone through the darkness, Elektra found herself heeding the impulse to follow, keeping a watchful eye until Karen made it safely through her own apartment door. Elektra told herself it was just an exercise, part of her training — nothing more.

Karen’s phone rang frequently on her visits — sometimes she’d sit down to do an interview right at Matthew’s table. Elektra had quickly gathered that she was a journalist of some sort. Almost every call related to the collapse in some way — the cleanup efforts, the effects on the neighborhood, and Elektra tuned them out, unable to bear it. But her ears perked up when she heard Karen exchanging heated words with someone, and she focused intently until she heard Karen say “Foggy” with tears in her voice.

Matthew still hadn’t turned up. Elektra knew he wouldn’t. She wondered how long it would take for Karen to come to the same conclusion.

She wondered how much it would break her unbeating heart when Karen finally did.

* * *

And then, Elektra ended up at Karen’s window. Because there was no one else—she had no one—and she needed—she had to—

It was late, it was dark inside, and she shouldn’t be there, she knew it was wrong to be there, but she rapped with her knuckles on the glass anyway. Her hand was trembling.

“Elektra?” Karen said when she opened the window, her face full of shock. She moved backward so Elektra could cross the sill.

Once she was inside, Elektra pulled the scarf she was wearing off her face and down to her neck. She tried desperately to catch her breath. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

“There was...a boy,” she managed eventually. “He didn’t—he didn’t see them.”

“Is he OK?” Karen asked, confused.

“Yes—yes—I helped him. I stopped them.”

“Someone was...hurting him?”

“He said thank you to me. He said thank you, over and over.” She could still hear his voice in her head, could still see his shock of brown hair and his pleading eyes.

“Who was hurting him?”

“A man—men.”

“Are they...dead?”

“No.” Elektra almost laughed, even as panic fluttered in her chest. “I couldn’t even kill them. He wouldn’t want me to.”

“I can call—” Karen was already pulling a disposable phone from a drawer. “Where are they?”

“Ninth and Forty-Second?” Elektra tried to picture it in her mind. “No. Forty-First.”

Karen was dialing. She spoke in a hushed tone that Elektra couldn’t tease apart into words.

“You’re bleeding,” Karen said when she hung up.

“It’s nothing,” Elektra said automatically. She hadn’t even noticed.

“Come on,” Karen said. She led Elektra to her kitchen table, then left the room and returned with a first aid kit. She put it on the tabletop, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. She poured out a shot and set it in front of Elektra before bandaging the cut on her arm. Elektra had to fight the entire time not to pull away. Not to run. She was still shaking. She left the shot untouched on the table.

“I’m the Black Sky.” She didn’t realize she was repeating it out loud until Karen interrupted.

“Not tonight you’re not,” Karen said forcefully. “You're the white knight.” Karen smiled — a fierce, wild smile that set Elektra’s skin buzzing, that burned away the numbness and yanked her out of her stupor. Elektra finally caught her breath.

“What does that make you?” she asked. She thought of her climb up to Karen’s window. “The princess in the tower?”

“Sorry,” Karen said with a little laugh, “but I think you’re more qualified than I am to be the princess, too.”

Elektra licked her lips. “So who are you, then?”

“A friend?”

Their eyes met and held.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously in “the dark life you live”: Elektra awoke on the riverbank after the collapse of Midland Circle, alive but unable to find Matt. At his apartment, she discovered Karen, who helped her in the hopes of getting more answers about what happened to Matt. Elektra started training (and keeping a watchful eye on Karen) and eventually saved a boy in danger (and went to Karen because she needed a friend).
> 
> This chapter picks up a few weeks later, immediately following Karen’s last appearance in The Punisher Season 1.

Karen closed the door to her apartment and slid down to the floor, the adrenaline and caffeine she had been running on for hours suddenly abandoning her.

She couldn't believe that she'd woken up here just this morning, that everything that happened — the attack at the hotel, the hostage-taking, the faux hostage-taking, the interview with Mahoney, the story she'd written — it all just took one day. One long damn day.

She realized she was trembling. If it hadn't been for Frank—

She wondered where he was now. He'd gotten away clear, she knew that — she'd listened to the police scanners intently once she'd made it back to the newsroom, but Mahoney and co. hadn't collared him. They wouldn't. Frank was too smart for all of them.

She forced herself off the floor and into the shower, washing away the grime from the bomb, the blood still stuck to her skin. Ellison had wanted her to go to the hospital — hell, even Mahoney had begged her to go get checked out. But she was fine.

She was fine.

She was fine.

She kept repeating it like a mantra, even as her tears mingled with the hot water sluicing down her skin.

Lewis Wilson was dead now. She didn't need to be afraid. And yet—and yet—

She was alone.

The Punisher was watching out for her, and she was still both awed and touched that was the case, but it didn't make her any less lonely now. She wished Frank would come back. Or even more that—

_No. Don't think about him. Don't think about him._

But it was too late. Her stomach had been slowly tying itself in knots about it for hours. Today had been the best proof yet that Matt was actually dead.

Because he didn't come.

_I'll keep you safe, Karen._

His words haunted her. It didn’t matter that she had told him not to bother, that she wasn't his to protect. Because he hadn't listened. He'd saved her again, from that freaky cult of ninjas. He'd begged her to go to the police station when the Hand re-emerged. And all through her nightmare today, some part of her had been waiting for him to swing in through the glass, all horns and red suit, and save her.

But it was Frank who came for her, instead. Frank who helped her save herself.

And she was grateful. She was amazed. But she was also terrified.

_He's dead, Karen. Just accept it._

_No_ , her heart screamed. _No_.

But for the first time, she wasn't sure if she could believe it.

* * *

Hours later, she sat cross-legged on her bed, taking another long swig of whiskey. The bottle was a gift from Ellison, a reward for wrapping up one of her numerous investigative pieces on Midland Circle.

She hadn't touched it before tonight. She felt too guilty — she was getting plaudits from him and others for her coverage of the collapse at the same time that she was covering up what really happened. She was keeping other people's secrets. She'd chastised Ellison for that very same thing when it came to Carson Wolf.

But she couldn't put Matt's secret identity in danger. And anyway, in this case, who would believe the truth?

Who would believe that those freaky ninjas could actually raise the dead? Even when she heard it straight from Danny Rand's mouth, she could hardly fathom it herself. It sounded like total bullshit — that the Hand had resurrected Matt's college sweetheart and turned her into a weapon. The Black Sky. _Elektra_.

Karen had heard her name only once before then, on the night Matt told her that he was Daredevil. She knew only that Matt cared about her, and that she was dead. He never actually said she’d been the woman in his bed. He didn't need to.

That day in the Harlem police precinct, Foggy’s tears spilled over as he confessed that he didn’t believe it when Matt said Elektra was back. Foggy thought Matt might’ve been having a nervous breakdown, from the grief and the stress. But Luke Cage, Jessica Jones — they said no. They'd seen Elektra too. She was there when they left Matt behind.

At first, Karen was sure there was some kind of alternate explanation. Some way to make it all not true.

And then Elektra turned up in Matt's apartment, telling the same damn story. Saying she killed him.

Maybe it was time to start believing it. All of it.

* * *

The drinking turned out to be a bad idea.

Because the bottle didn't take away her longing, her loneliness, but it did take away her judgment.

She found herself in the backseat of a cab, riding the few blocks to Matt's place with the whiskey concealed in her coat. She didn't know what she was looking for. Some scrap of hope, maybe.

When she got to the top of the stairs in Matt's building, she was surprised to find his door ajar. She pushed it open with her hand. There were no lights on inside, just the glow of the billboard through the windows.

Elektra wasn't there.

Except suddenly she _was_ there — coming up behind Karen on the stairs. Karen's heart jolted in her chest, and a memory blossomed in her hazy brain. The same thing had happened on the very first night she'd stayed in this apartment.

She went back to Matt's place, after watching the masked man fight for her in the rainy alley, and she'd found the door open with no one inside. But then in a rush he appeared, soaked to the skin, concern etched on his face. "I was searching for you everywhere," he said.

She felt terrible, chastising herself for letting that brave, blind lawyer hunt in the wet night for her. She didn't know yet that he was only pretending, that he was telling her a story to cover up why he was awake and drenched, instead of still asleep on his couch. It was just one of the many fictions he would weave for her.

_I'll keep you safe, Karen._

"Did you follow me?" she asked Elektra accusingly.

"Of course," Elektra said, flicking her long hair out of her face. "After what happened at the hotel?"

"You know about that?"

"I’m only sorry I didn’t get there sooner." Elektra raised an eyebrow. "But you had someone looking out for you."

And Karen laughed, an undignified, snorty laugh. How many fucking vigilantes was she going to collect? She was like a magnet for them, apparently. She fooled them all into thinking she was someone worth protecting.

But the joke was always on her, because they saved her life, but they never stayed in it for long.

Elektra's face wrinkled up at the sound of Karen's laughter and she reached out to pull open Karen’s coat. The bottle gleamed in the light of the billboard.

"Classy," Elektra said appraisingly.

Karen decided since the bottle was out, she might as well take another swallow. Then she offered it to Elektra, who looked at it like it was covered in filth. She took it gingerly and set it on the shelf in the hallway. Karen giggled.

"Come on."

And Elektra pulled Karen's arm to direct her toward the bedroom.

That's where Matt had taken her, too, on that first night, after she'd poured out the story of the man in the mask. The story he'd already lived through.

In his room, she changed into dry clothes yet again. And then he tucked her into his bed. She was weak as a kitten when the exhaustion hit her. But somehow the man who had fallen several stories managed to be strong. How had he slept on the couch that night? He must have been in so much pain, but he never showed it. God, he'd hidden so much pain, always.

Elektra brought her water, and aspirin. When she left the room, Karen rolled in the sheets, luxuriating in the cool slide of the silk as her head spun. The bed smelled like Elektra — something rich and heady and with the same French accent as her voice. Elektra was still wearing donated clothes and squatting in Matt's apartment, so Karen wasn't sure how she smelled so _expensive_.

Karen half-dozed, imagining Frank's arms around her, a gun digging into the soft underside of her chin. She imagined Matt's gloved hand caressing her cheek. She imagined Elektra crawling in next to her, making no sound and only the slightest dent in the mattress.

It was only then that she felt safe enough to sink into sleep.

* * *

When she woke up, she was looking into Elektra's dark eyes. Karen scrunched up her face, squeezing her eyes shut against the sunlight.

Elektra let out an amused little huff. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” Karen said, opening first one eye and then the other. Her head was fuzzy and her whole body ached from the aftermath of the bomb blast.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Did you go out last night?”

Elektra went out most nights, she knew. They saw each other, briefly, every few days — Karen helping Elektra with getting patched up and sometimes with tips. There were rumors starting to spread through the Kitchen of a “She-Devil.” The gendered nickname annoyed Karen. Couldn’t she just be the new Devil? But Karen was the only one who knew enough to publish anything about the neighborhood’s latest vigilante, and she didn’t have any intention of calling attention to Elektra.

“You know that I went out.” Elektra’s eyes sparkled when she was amused. “I found a very inebriated reporter and made sure she got home safely.”

Karen bit her lip. "This isn't home," she said quietly.

"If you're paying for it, it's yours, darling," Elektra said.

Karen didn't like the way she flushed pink at the endearment — it was just a figure of speech. "I don't know how much longer I can keep it up," she said, changing the subject.

"I...“

"I know, your assets are gone. You were declared dead." Karen had spent quite a bit of time researching Elektra — the public Elektra Natchios, anyway. The one who was legally dead, though apparently unmourned except for Matt. Her death had never been officially announced to the press, so there were no obituaries as there had been for her father the diplomat, even in the Greek media. Karen suspected that few who knew her had ever heard she was gone.

Another Bulletin reporter had done a small item several weeks ago about Elektra’s grave being robbed — police chalked it up to someone looking for jewelry. It was presumed that her corpse had been sold on the black market. Medical schools were always in need of cadavers.

Karen shuddered.

The former corpse was getting up from the bed. “I should make...alternate arrangements.”

“No,” Karen said. “I’ll find a way. I’m not giving this place up. He’s going to—”

Elektra gave her such a sharp look that Karen stopped short. They weren’t talking about Matt anymore.

But Karen smiled a little to herself at her own words, which had spilled out of her without conscious thought. In the light of another morning, she was back to her old stubborn self. She could believe again. She could still feel him.

Elektra padded out of the room. Karen wasn't sure if she should follow her, but her body shouted an unmistakable "no" at the thought of getting up. She closed her eyes. She must have drifted off again, because she awoke to the aroma of coffee and the scrape of a plate of toast over the surface of the bedside table as Elektra put it down.

_You're a goddess._

The words floated through her head but Karen didn't say them out loud. When Matt had said them to her — also in response to the powerful gift of caffeination — he had most definitely been flirting. Did that mean Karen was—?

"Thank you," was what Karen said out loud, sitting up. The first sip of coffee spread through her like some kind of elixir of life. She took another sip and made a pleased noise. "You're good at this," she said to Elektra, nodding at her cup.

"One of my many talents," Elektra said saucily, that sparkle back in her eyes. Was _she_ —?

But then Elektra’s face fell, and darkened. Not for the first time, Karen wished she could see inside Elektra's head. So much about her was still a mystery, no matter how much research Karen had done.

Karen drank the rest of her coffee quickly, nibbling here and there at the toast, suddenly in a hurry to get back to her own place. As so often happened when she had a good idea, everything else faded — her pain and the fog in her brain and all the confusing feelings squeezing at her heart.

Karen had questions, and she was determined to get answers.

* * *

"Thanks for agreeing to see me," Karen said the next day as she sat down in a chair in Danny Rand's living room. "I'm still...trying to come to terms with everything."

"Of course, Miss Page—"

"Karen," she interrupted.

"Karen.” His eyes lingered on the little constellation of cuts healing around her left eye, but he didn’t ask about them. Instead, he said, “All of us are still struggling with what happened."

"I've been thinking about what you told us, about...the Hand, and there are pieces that I don't understand."

Danny smiled wanly. "I'm not surprised."

"You said...there was something—some _one_ called the Black Sky." Karen licked her lips. "What _is_ the Black Sky?"

Danny tilted his head. "That's like asking what's Bigfoot or what's the Loch Ness Monster. It's all based on legend and lore. Even after fighting the Black Sky in hand to hand combat, I'm still not quite sure."

"What do the stories say, then?"

"The Black Sky is the weapon of the Hand. That much everyone agrees on. A superhuman fighter with skills honed over lifetimes." Danny ran his hand through his hair. "In the legends, the Black Sky is a blank slate — no humanity, just pure weapon."

"A cold-blooded killer," Karen said, thinking of the way Elektra's eyes sparkled, the tender way she'd tucked Karen into bed.

"Yeah." Danny's forehead wrinkled. "But Matt...he was determined to try to get through to her. I should've tried...tried to convince him that it wasn't going to happen."

Karen looked down at her hands, then back up at Danny. She shook her head.

"I don't think it would have helped. Honestly," Karen said. "If he was determined..."

"He told me to protect his city," Danny said, his voice growing intent, almost desperate. "And I'm trying. I swear to you, I'm trying."

Karen bit her lip, her eyes watery. "You're not alone," she said.

* * *

Karen left Danny’s place later, even more confused than when she got there. What he told her just didn’t square with what she knew about the Black Sky. Elektra wasn't a monster.

 _Or maybe you just identify with monsters,_ her brain argued _._ _First it was the Punisher, now this. Maybe you can't see them for what they are. Because_ you're _a monster._

Because Karen recognized that look on Elektra's face, when she came into Matt's apartment on that first, fateful day. She recognized the words that spilled from Elektra's lips - _I killed him_.

She knew. Karen _knew_.

_I wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t leave me._

_I undeferred you...You gotta get outta here, Karen._

She knew the futility of it all. Of knowing you couldn’t be saved, you wouldn’t be saved. And resenting the very attempt. Scoffing at their faith in you, their blind belief in something better.

She knew so intimately how it all went to hell — the trailer on fire, the building falling on your head, the car flip-flip-flipping off of the guardrail.

She knew blood and darkness and silence screaming death. Screaming shame.

Silence shattering your skull with the knowledge that the person you loved most in the world was gone, and it was all your fault. _I killed him_.

Yes, Karen knew that.

But still her brain rebelled against Danny's description of the Black Sky. Elektra was out saving people in the streets. She couldn't be the blank-slate Black Sky of legend. The Hand had tried to make her a weapon and somehow they had failed.

And no matter what Elektra believed, no matter the guilt shattering her insides, Matt wasn't gone. When Karen found him, she could make that nightmare not true for Elektra. She could undo that horrible mistake for someone else.

* * *

When Matt did come back from wherever he was — Karen pictured him lying unconscious in a bed somewhere, or maybe with amnesia, or trapped underground with just enough food and water to get by — he would need a place to live. His place. But, as she’d told Elektra, she was having trouble keeping up with two New York City rents on one salary. And, sure enough, she fell behind. It took only a few days before she found the eviction notice tucked in with the mail. Pay up or get out.

Which meant she couldn’t put it off anymore. There was only one person she could ask for help — someone whose presence soothed and tortured her in equal measures. She loved Foggy; she couldn’t stand to see Foggy. Because every minute she was with him, she was holding her breath, waiting for Matt to stroll in, harried and distracted, apologizing for keeping them waiting, some new bruise on his cheek, his knuckles roughened.

But it couldn't be helped. She called Foggy, and she asked him to meet her at Matt's apartment, under the pretense of moving some boxes — moving Matt out. She took a chance on Elektra being away, and she was right.

The apartment was empty, only dust motes moving, dancing in the colored sunshine. She sorted mail and checked the radiator — she didn't know why she kept doing these things, why she didn't just leave it up to Elektra, but it made her feel better, keeping busy while she was here.

She still had a few minutes to wait for Foggy, so she did something she hadn't done before, in all the weeks Elektra had been staying in Matt's apartment. She went to the closet and opened it up. She knelt down and lifted the hinged lid of Matt's trunk.

To the eye, it was empty. But to Karen, it was unbearably full. The memories spilled over her — the crinkle of the paper bag that held the horns and the glowing, empty eyes of the Devil. The sound of Matt's voice, soft and low and so careful, telling her things she could hardly bear to hear but that finally had the ring of truth to them. The beating of his heart under her palm, strong and steady, even as he began to lie again. _I don't need him to be a part of me anymore._

Maybe he had actually believed it, for a while. Or maybe she was just shit at reading people’s hearts. Even her own.

She jumped at the sound of the door. "Karen? Hey, Karen, you here?"

She faked a smile as she greeted Foggy, breathless from being yanked from her reverie.

"I thought...you said you were packing the place up," he said, glancing around.

"Uh, yeah, I lied," she admitted. "I mean, technically it was more of, like, a ruse."

Foggy's expression was confused, but luckily untouched by anger. So far, so good. "So what am I really doing here?"

Karen took a deep breath, and plunged in. "Matt's being evicted. I've been paying the bills — well, some of them — until he gets back."

"Karen." His tone was stern now, and concerned.

"I need you to help me convince his landlord to give me an extension. Carrying two rents — I'm behind this month. That's all."

And Foggy said all the words she expected him to say. The building collapsed. Matt was inside. Matt was dead. Dead, dead, dead. And Foggy was taking it hard, too, because he was the one who brought Matt the suit.

That was the cue for Karen to say her part, about how Foggy shouldn't blame himself. It was the truth, but she knew it only made him feel worse.

And it worked. She was sure it would — that was why she had brought him here, instead of bringing up the topic while they ate lunch somewhere, or had drinks at her place. Foggy offered to pay for one more month's rent. She insisted they split it 50-50.

And that would have been it, except when Foggy stood up, he didn't walk toward the door as Karen expected. He walked to Matt's bedroom, a curious look on his face, and pulled the door open. "Foggy—" She was frozen in place, watching with distress as he took in the messy bed, the black tank top flung across the pillow.

"Wait," Foggy said. "Have you been living here?"

"No," Karen said quickly. "God no."

He looked at her skeptically. “Karen—”

"But...someone has," she said. A ruse was one thing, but she couldn’t lie to his face. Not when he’d just agreed to help her. "Foggy, I know it's possible that Matt made it out of Midland Circle alive. And the reason I know that is because someone else did."

"Who?" He shook his head, then his chin jerked back in shock. "No." He looked at her, and now the anger was in full bloom across his features. "You can't be serious. Elektra—? And you've known all this time?"

Karen closed her eyes and nodded.

"And she's been living here?" He started pacing. "You need to turn her over to the cops. She was trying to kill them all. She—she killed Matt."

Karen swallowed. "If...if he is dead, which I don't believe, then he died trying to save her. He would want us to help her. You heard them, Luke and Jessica and Danny. They said she was brainwashed or something. But she's different now."

"I don’t believe this..."

"She saved a boy."

"What?"

Karen was finally able to move, so she stood up, taking a few steps toward him. "She told me that she saved a boy, and I followed up with the police and I talked to the boy, Foggy. It's true. A beautiful woman wearing a red scarf over her face saved that boy's life. She...I think she did it for Matt. And she...she keeps going out. She's saved others. Who knows how many."

"Elektra is the She-Devil?"

Karen gave him a look. "You've heard about that?"

"I might have fancier suits and a nicer apartment, but I'm still a part of the Kitchen. My family, my friends, they're all here," Foggy said. "So I hear things."

"Yes, Elektra is the...She-Devil."

Foggy laughed — a cold, hard sound. "I can't be here," he said, starting to walk toward the door.

"We only have a few days," Karen said pleadingly.

"Fine." He pulled out his checkbook and wrote hurriedly, nearly ripping the paper as he tore it out. "Take the money," he said, tossing the check in her direction. It fluttered to the floor. "But that's it. I don't want anything more to do with this. I expected more from you, Karen."

The door slammed hard behind him on the way out.

* * *

Karen put the check on a shelf in her kitchen. She stared at it for days, unable to cash it, even as the deadline for Matt’s eviction drew near.

What was she doing?

Clinging to a dead man. Sheltering a murderer. Alienating maybe the only real friend she had left.

She was still brooding late into the night, sitting at her kitchen table with her trusty bottle and the check in front of her, when the rapping came on her window.

Elektra didn’t wait this time — she burst in. Karen was only half-standing by the time Elektra reached her living room, and she sat down again, hard. Elektra was pale, her eyes wild. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

_Like she’d seen a ghost._

“You saw him,” Karen said, in shock. “You saw Matt.”

“It’s impossible,” Elektra said.

Karen covered her face with her hands, not sure whether to laugh or to cry. “Where is he?” she said when she could speak again, getting up from the table to stand in front of Elektra.

“I saw...just a glimpse while I was fighting. I—I must’ve imagined it. I looked everywhere and I couldn’t find him.”

“It was him,” Karen said. “I can feel it.” She moved restlessly, unable to control herself. “We should go to his apartment. Maybe he’s there.”

“No,” Elektra said, shaking her head emphatically. “If he wanted me to find him, I would have found him. He doesn’t want…” Her voice shook, her face crumbling. “I _killed_ him.”

And for a split second, Karen imagined what it would be like, coming face to face with her brother again. Oh, the _shame_.

She reached out and put her arms around Elektra, pulling her close. She wasn’t sure if her touch would be welcome, but Elektra clung to her tightly, pressing her face into Karen’s neck. Karen hadn’t realized how badly she needed the comfort herself. She was shaking — with joy and relief and terror and confusion. She closed her eyes and soaked in Elektra’s warmth.

Karen wanted to go out and hunt for Matt, to make him explain what the hell was going on. But Elektra was right — it would be impossible to find him in the dark if he didn’t want to be found.

“It’s OK. You can stay here tonight,” Karen said soothingly. They’d figure out what to do in the morning.

But Karen’s eyes lingered on the window, wondering if the Devil was out there, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he’s out there, all right! Next chapter: Matt’s POV!
> 
> Also, as you surely noticed, much of the scene with Karen and Foggy was adapted from 3x01 Resurrection.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously in “the dark life you live”: Elektra survived Midland Circle, but she doesn't believe that Matt did. With help from Karen (who wanted answers about everything), she recovered from her injuries and began helping people in Matt's honor, starting rumors of a "She-Devil" in Hell's Kitchen. As Karen has gotten closer to Elektra, she's sought out Danny Rand to ask questions about the Black Sky and fought with Foggy about allowing Elektra to stay in Matt's apartment. Now both Karen and Elektra are on edge — because Elektra may have seen Matt while she was fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this chapter deals with Matt in a similar headspace to the canon version in 3x01 Resurrection and 3x02 Please. In other words, he’s depressed and having suicidal thoughts. Elektra is also struggling.

All he'd wanted was to die.

God would understand, Matt knew that. Hadn't he heard it over and over again, sitting in the pew in Clinton Church? Sung in the high, clear voices of the nuns in the choir: "No greater love is there than this — to lay down one's life for a friend."

After all, he was supposed to be a hero, wasn’t he? That’s what heroes did. They went toward the danger. They saved the damsel tied to the train tracks. And if the train hit both of them, well, sometimes that was the price. Heroes died for their causes. They died for their cities. For Foggy. For Karen. For Elektra.

Heroes died. God would understand that. No greater love.

But He didn’t, after all. He turned his back. Made Matt keep going, with nothing left. He’d never been a hero — _you’re not one of them_ , Karen’s voice echoed — and he was farther away than ever.

God wouldn’t grant him grace, so Matt was turning to the Devil inside him. If he had to burn, he’d burn. Better to die as the Devil.

All he'd wanted was to die. Then. Now.

But he didn't.

Father Lantom called it a miracle that Matt survived the collapse.

Some would call this a miracle, too — God sending Elektra back to him, just when he planned to succumb. Just when he decided to pick a fight and lose.

But Matt knew the truth. God was taunting him.

* * *

It all started when Matt sensed a commotion from his perch on the steeple of the church. A woman screaming about her father, the sounds of a physical struggle, the metallic slide of a van’s door.

As he got closer, he could smell the tang of fresh blood and the dull sweetness of dry-cleaning solvent. He counted four heartbeats in the immediate area.

But there were five people breathing.

His stomach dropped as he came to a halt, but he forced himself to focus, to separate the sounds and the movements into individuals. There was the woman who screamed. Her father. Three attackers — two men and a woman.

His eyes began to water as he recognized the tiny sounds she made when she landed a punch, the particular cadence of her kicks.

Elektra.

He had to be hallucinating. He wanted her back so badly he’d called her to life. But all of his senses told him it was her. She was alive, or as alive as she could be, now.

And she was attacking a man and his daughter?

But no. The two attackers were fighting _her_. She was—she was the defender. She was alive and she was _protecting_ these people.

“It’s her!” the young woman cried. “The She-Devil!”

The Devil?

It was all too much, too fast. He was reeling. He felt the maybe-Elektra stop suddenly, going completely motionless except for a sharp intake of breath.

Had she seen him? He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t trust it. He wasn’t going to do this again.

He heard her yell, “Go! Get out of here!” to the woman and her father, and the bone-deep familiarity of her voice choked him.

He stayed in the shadows, waiting, listening to her voice again, calling for him. There was an uncertain quality to it. She didn’t expect to find him. And maybe—maybe she didn’t really _want_ to find him. But she still knew who he was. That much was clear.

Matt stayed back, always just out of range, until she headed in a different direction. Now it was his turn, to follow her. He needed to know what this was. Could it truly be Elektra? Had the Hand reclaimed her? Was it some kind of trap?

In all of his wildest imaginings, he could never have expected where this maybe-Elektra would lead him.

Right to Karen’s apartment.

Matt was so shocked, the whole neighborhood rushed in on him at once. He couldn’t sense anything through the static. The buzzy screaming blur made his bad ear throb with pain. Elektra knew where Karen lived? Elektra was seeking Karen out?

By the time he recovered enough to worry for Karen’s safety, it was a moot point. Karen’s heart was beating right up against Elektra’s rapid inhale, exhale, inhale. There was no space between them. They weren’t talking or fighting, they were...holding each other.

Matt couldn’t move. He couldn’t draw his own breath. He stood there, rooted in place on the fire escape above, as it all unfolded in slow motion.

“It’s OK. You can stay here tonight.” Karen’s voice. Soothing.

They curled up together in Karen’s bed — the soft squeak of mattress springs. Elektra was clearly upset, the air hitching in her chest, and Karen’s pulse was rabbiting. Matt heard the whisper of stroking fingers over silky hair, the rustle of lips against skin. A cheek? A forehead?

The idea of Karen bringing Elektra tenderly into her bed was overloading his synapses. How was this possible? They didn’t even know each other. And it was more than comfort. There was another scent there, too. Unmistakable.

That wasn’t completely without precedent. He’d noticed since the beginning that Karen’s heart rate sometimes elevated around the same women who got Foggy’s pulse going. And well, Elektra — the old Elektra, the _real_ Elektra — she could seduce the paint off the walls.

But this didn’t feel like a seduction. This felt like—caring. They _cared_ about each other.

As his surprise receded, it left behind an ache like nothing he had ever felt before. An ocean of unceasing, unbearable longing.

He couldn’t handle this.

* * *

His feet took him to his apartment.

It was almost worse here. Elektra’s scent was everywhere. The warm smell of her perfume — the one Matt always kept a bottle of, secreted away in a drawer. The dark smell of the mystical — a listless note, like air that had already been breathed, that clung to those who were resurrected.

Karen was everywhere, too, though her scent was lighter, less soaked-in. And underneath it all was the stale, fading smell of him, and of what used to be home.

They had been here. Together. And not for just one surprise encounter through a doorway while he gaped and fumbled.

He’d kept them apart on purpose. He couldn’t give either of them up, so he’d let circumstances make the choices for him. He disappointed Karen. He got Elektra killed. But now they were free of him completely, and they’d found each other.

Had he been afraid of this all along? Worried that, in Karen, Elektra would see a light that burned brighter and clearer than his own? That, in Elektra, Karen would find someone who appreciated her crusading empathy more than Frank Castle? Even more than Matt himself?

Neither of them needed him. And what could he possibly offer now, as broken as he was? They were better off without him.

He pulled off the mask and collapsed into his bed. They’d slept here, too. Elektra more than Karen, but the salt of Karen’s skin was here, tantalizing him. He wondered what they had done in his bed, what they might be doing even now a few blocks away, and he groaned at the mirage of sensations that flooded his head, that made his body tighten.

God was not content to taunt him. God was _torturing_ him.

He wouldn’t rise to the bait. He dragged himself from the bed, from their phantom arms, and returned to the church. He hit the punching bag in the basement until he could barely move, and then he collapsed to the unforgiving floor.

* * *

In the morning, he woke to the cold stone below him and a voice he loved high above him. In the echo of the church overhead, Karen sounded like a strand of music from heaven.

“—Murdock. He’s a parishioner here. Do you know him?”

“I knew him well as a child.” Sister Maggie’s calm tones carried in answer. There was concern underneath her carefully chosen words; her heartbeat ticked up nervously.

“Have you seen him?” Karen’s voice was sharp-edged now, but Matt knew Maggie’s black habit was working in his favor. Even perpetually, professionally skeptical Karen probably wouldn’t accuse a nun of lying to her face.

“Not today,” Maggie said. Matt almost cracked a smile. She was good at this.

“But recently?” Karen pressed. “He’s been missing for weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, and Matt knew she was shaking her head, offering a brittle smile. “I can’t help you.”

“If you do see him, will you tell him Karen Page is trying to contact him?”

“Of course.”

It took a long moment for Karen’s footfalls to begin tapping above him. But eventually she started to walk away. Even her steps seemed unconvinced.

“Keep faith, Karen,” Maggie called after her, a troubled note shaking her voice in a way that probably only Matt could detect.

He wasn’t surprised that Maggie’s footsteps began heading in his direction, once Karen was gone. He closed his eyes, waiting for the fallout.

“You heard that, I suppose,” Maggie said when she reached him. She didn’t wait for confirmation. She leaned down and urged him off the floor with gentle hands. He let her help him. “I thought you said you didn’t have anyone.”

“She’s just a reporter,” Matt said caustically, drawing away from Maggie’s touch as soon as he was on his feet.

“So you do know her.” Maggie paused. “You think she’s writing a story?”

He didn’t answer. He walked painfully over to the sink, his muscles screaming with stiffness.

“Does she know who you are?”

He turned on the water and filled a glass, drinking deeply.

Maggie sighed. “Well, it seemed to me like she was in pain, Matthew.”

“She’ll get over it,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and setting the glass down with a clink.

“Will you?”

He choked then, his breath coming out in a half-sob. He couldn’t hold it back anymore, the dread and the misery rising in him like a cold tide.

“Did something happen? Is that why your friend showed up here today?”

“She—she’s alive,” Matt croaked out, sitting down hard on a dusty box, just beyond the stream of sunshine from the window.

“Karen?” Maggie asked, confused.

“No.” Matt put his head in his hands.

Maggie gasped. “Elektra.”

He pulled his face up sharply. “How did you—?”

“It was the first thing you said when you woke up. An unusual name. Not someone you easily forget.”

“No,” Matt said. That was an understatement.

“An ambassador’s daughter.”

Matt’s forehead creased. “Did I say that too?”

“That was from Paul. He knew her name from the funeral. We found the newspaper story about her grave being robbed—and, well, it did seem odd. And familiar, too, around here. An empty tomb.” Maggie took a deep breath. “We even tried to find her for you, at first. Called hospitals looking for a Jane Doe. But there was nothing.”

He nodded. If he could feel anything beyond the pain, he might be touched that they tried. That they believed him enough to try.

“Help me understand,” Maggie said. “The woman you thought was dead is still alive. And this brings you no joy?”

Matt felt a hot knife of guilt in his gut. He should be happy. The sun was shining right next to him, but it brought him no warmth. All he felt was the infinite emptiness of a black sky.

“Do you doubt it? Is that it? Do you need to stick your fingers in her wounds?”

Matt smiled angrily. “No. I doubted at first, but—of course it’s her. That’s exactly what He would do. He brings her back, He takes her away, and every time, it’s worse.”

“So you think this is all just to hurt you?”

“I can’t do anything to help her. I can’t protect her. Not like this, and not before, either. It’s better to stay away.”

“What is it you think will happen if you don’t?”

“Have you ever heard of the She-Devil?” he asked, ignoring Maggie’s question.

Maggie rubbed a hand over her cheek. “It’s funny that you mention that. Sister Theresa was telling us at breakfast about this—this She-Devil. There was a television star attacked, and she told the police that a woman in a red scarf saved her father’s life.”

“Get Sister Theresa,” Matt said urgently, standing up from the box.

Matt remembered the cries. Remembered Elektra telling the woman and her father to go.

Sister Theresa was summoned, and she dutifully repeated her tale, but there was no new information in it. Maggie dismissed her, then turned to Matt.

“A new Devil in town,” she said airily. “Friend of yours?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you saw her last night. The Devil. Elektra.” Maggie clicked her tongue. He knew his lack of answer answered for him. “She has abilities, like you?”

“Not like me,” Matt said huskily. “She’s better. Especially now.”

“Now’s not the worst time to have some help, you know. Let someone else take up the fight.”

“If I can’t fight…” He couldn’t speak around the squeezing in his throat.

“What? You’re useless? With that fancy law degree and two perfectly good hands to use in service?”

He ducked his head, turned away. “Why did you become a nun?”

If she was thrown off by the personal question, it didn’t last long. “I heard God’s call,” she said simply.

“So you feel like being a nun is what you’re meant to be.”

“Yes,” she said. “Very much.”

“What if you couldn’t be one anymore? If it were taken from you. Wouldn’t you grieve?”

“Of course I would. But I wouldn’t lose faith.”

“So you’ve never doubted, is that it?” he said. “You’ve never so much as questioned?”

She breathed out, and he could almost hear the effort she put into choosing her words. She sounded like she did when she answered Karen upstairs — like she was trying very hard to tell no lies but also navigate around the truth.

“A long time ago, when I was still a novitiate, I left the order for a while.”

“Why?” What was she hiding?

“I was considering a very different life. I struggled to know which life God wanted me to choose. I prayed. I looked for signs. In the end, I just had to do my best to figure it out.”

Her words dripped bitterness straight into his heart. “That’s the difference between us. I no longer care what God wants.”

“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she said sarcastically. “You’ve seen his true face now.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” he asked, his voice choked. “To have someone you love die in your arms — and then come back all wrong? To know that life can be toyed with like that? Like we’re all just...dolls, tossed away and picked back up again for His amusement?”

“No. Of course not,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I can only take it on faith that what you describe is even possible. But I do know what it’s like to have a prayer answered in a way you could never expect. I know how truly terrifying that can be.”

* * *

The knowledge that Karen was looking for him — that Elektra might be looking for him — made Matt restless. He couldn’t stay in the basement. He was lost, and he had no desire to be found.

There was nothing left for him.

He’d given up Matt Murdock’s life, with extreme prejudice, and now he couldn’t even be the Devil. Elektra had taken up his mantle, and she was already sleeping in Karen’s arms. He hadn’t been exaggerating to Sister Maggie. Elektra _was_ better.

He found a big coat and a ball cap amid the stockpile of clothing donated to the church — not the best fit, but befitting a man who wanted to go unrecognized, undiscovered. He took the white cane the nuns had scrounged up for him, and he ventured up into the church itself for the first time since he regained consciousness.

He listened to the prayers around him, feeling pity for each supplicant, begging as they were for answers that would never come.

Father Lantom’s footsteps approached, and Matt turned away quickly. If Lantom had spoken to Sister Maggie— No, Matt couldn’t bear to talk about Elektra again.

As he scrambled to leave the church, he almost bumped into a parishioner, and the man apologized, with the same overcompensating tone nearly everyone used when they noticed the glasses and cane. Matt continued without even acknowledging him, but the smell of the man’s clothing carried with him into the cold air outside.

He knew that smell — dry-cleaning solvent. An unusual one, more herbal than chemical. It was the same scent that had permeated the van and clung to the men Elektra was fighting the previous night. He realized now how odd that was. Dry-cleaning kidnappers? The smell and the rustle of plastic bags meant it wasn’t merely an excuse to drive around a creepy van. There was a real business attached. And if they were after the dad and not the presumably beautiful TV star daughter, they weren’t in the usual kind of creepy-van-using business.

And they were probably still at large. Elektra had distracted the men long enough for the victims to get away, but then she left the scene to chase after him.

If he could track the scent, he could hunt the criminals. And he wasn’t the kind of dog they’d like to meet in the dark.

It was something. It was a distraction.

* * *

He’d found the place. He was sure of that. But he didn’t have any evidence beyond his nose. He needed to investigate further. He stashed the coat and hat and traded them for his new makeshift mask. The one he fashioned from items he’d pilfered from the church laundry.

He was about to head down into the dry-cleaners’ basement to search for confirmation of illegal activity when something stopped him. The place was just blocks from his old apartment, and the noise was coming from there.

He might not have noticed at all, he might have filtered it out with the rest of the constant background hum, except it was his least favorite sound in the world — Karen’s voice yelling in fear.

He didn’t stop to think. He ran.

* * *

It took a moment for it to come back into focus, once he started moving, but the distant sound of Karen thumbing off the safety of her gun rattled in his brain like a shot.

“What are you doing here?” she yelled. “Did Foggy send you?”

“Foggy? I don’t know what you're talking about. I followed _her_ here. I was curious about the She-Devil.” That was the Iron Fist. Danny. His voice was twisted with quiet rage. “I had no idea what I’d find.” Danny gritted his teeth.

“And what have you heard about the She-Devil? Has she been killing people? Destroying New York? No, she’s been keeping the Kitchen safe. Just like you.”

“And you? By harboring the weapon of the Hand?”

“She’s not. Not anymore.”

“You don’t understand the Hand! They’re manipulative. Treacherous. She’d do anything to get you to believe her, to get you to help her.”

“No.”

“It’s true that the Hand will stop at nothing.” Another woman’s voice, the one who had been with Claire. Her name was a little bit like Claire’s. Christine? Colleen.

“It’s only a matter of time before she tries to destroy us all.” Rand again.

“Karen” — and oh, the way Elektra said that name, it almost made him falter, almost made him miss a step — “stop.”

Elektra let out a tortured sound, and Matt thought he could hear something shatter inside her.

“When I first discovered that I was the Black Sky,” she said softly, “I stood on the roof of this very building, and I thought about jumping.” She scoffed. “I know now that killing myself wouldn’t have prevented any of this from happening. And I don’t think jumping off a building could end me now. But the Iron Fist...the chi harnessed in opposition to the Hand—maybe it will work.”

“Danny...I’m not sure…” The woman’s voice. Colleen.

“There’s no substance left to bring me back,” Elektra continued. “This could all be over. Karen…”

Matt was close enough now to taste the tears that welled up in Karen’s eyes.

“You have to let them.”

_No._

“No! Dammit, Elektra. Dying is not the only good thing you can do. Don’t you see that yet?”

“Don’t _you_ see? I’m the reason he’s staying away. When I’m gone, you can—you can have him back.”

“Have who back?” Danny’s voice was a mixture of frustration and suspicion.

Matt was wondering the same thing, when it hit him. Elektra wanted to die because she thought he—but how could she ever think that he would want—?

Before he even knew what he was doing, he was bursting in through the roof access. He stood above them, gasping for breath.

“I think—” he panted. “I think she means me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the opening paragraph, I’m specifically thinking of the words of the hymn “We Have Been Told” by David Haas, which we sang all the time at my Catholic church back in the day. (That line is based on John 15:13.) Also, this chapter quite obviously takes inspiration from the first two episodes of Season 3, including stealing and adapting some of Matt and Maggie’s dialogue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously in “the dark life you live”: Elektra survived Midland Circle and, surprisingly, grew close to Karen in the aftermath. Elektra believed Matt to be dead, though Karen stubbornly clung to hope. In Matt’s absence, Elektra began serving as Hell’s Kitchen’s new “She-Devil.” However, after spotting Matt alive one night, a guilt-ridden Elektra tried to convince the Iron Fist to end the threat of the Black Sky. Then Matt showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that Elektra is still struggling with suicidal impulses in this chapter.

Matthew stood above them on the landing, his face half-covered by the black mask she’d seen him wearing before. There was no way Elektra could doubt it anymore. There was no longer even the slightest chance that he was a figment of her imagination. She hadn’t killed him.

Matthew was achingly alive.

No one spoke, or even seemed to breathe, until Matthew himself began to move, taking one slow step down the stairs — a dark angel beginning his descent from the heavens. The motion sliced the tension in the room wide open.

“Holy shit,” Karen hissed under her breath.

“What the—” Danny yelped. “You’re alive?”

Elektra remained frozen. Just minutes ago, she had been prepared to die at the hand of the Iron Fist, but now—now she had no idea what to expect. Danny’s and Karen’s voices continued to buzz around her, demanding answers from Matthew that Elektra didn’t care to hear.

_Are you serious? How did you make it out? Where have you been?_

He must have been carried out to the riverfront like she was — it was the only solution that made sense. And Elektra didn’t want to listen to his explanation for why he’d stayed away. Her guesses hurt badly enough.

The noise around her felt deafening, even though she knew it hadn’t actually gotten much louder. She couldn’t tease their voices apart anymore. She could barely even look in Matthew’s direction.

But it was easy for her to slip away, to leave them all behind without being noticed. She was the darkness, and the darkness was her.

The chill wind on the rooftop was as welcome as a lover’s embrace. Elektra sucked the air into her lungs, shaking off her haze. She knew she should be glad to see Matthew, glad to know that he didn’t want her dead, and she was, she truly was, but she also knew that he was still hopelessly lost to her.

Matthew might not wish her harm, but how could his feelings ever be what they were? She’d left his life in ruins three times now. The third time was supposed to be the charm. The one that finally made it stick. He had to accept now that she could never be part of his life — the only life for someone like her was a life lived alone.

Elektra stepped up on the ledge, looking down at the street below. The lights of New York were dazzling, so bright they dimmed the stars. She looked up then, into the vast blackness stretching above her head. The sky seemed empty, lonely, but it wasn’t really. It was crowded — jammed with celestial bodies, far too many to ever count.

There was so much in a black sky that the human eye couldn’t see.

Elektra stepped down from the ledge, resigned. The fall wouldn’t kill her. It would just make her weak again. And she needed to be strong. She needed to shoulder her heavy, steady load and move forward.

Alone.

“Elektra?”

Karen emerged from the other access door — the one in Matthew’s hallway. She shivered in the wind, wrapping her arms around herself.

“You should go back inside,” Elektra said.

“What are you doing out here?” Karen’s forehead was creased, her eyes narrowed.

“Finding the answers I needed.”

“Aren’t those inside? Matt—he’s—”

“He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Not even an explanation? He let you think you _killed_ him.”

“Whether I did or not is immaterial. I would’ve.”

“You’re just going to keep punishing yourself for something you didn’t even do?” The wind blew Karen’s hair into her face and she pushed it away angrily. “The least he could have done was not run away from you last night! He could have at least let you know he was alive.”

“None of it matters. It doesn’t change what I am. Even Matthew must understand that now.”

“He’s not the only person who cares about you.”

Karen’s voice was a challenge. Elektra’s eyes rose to meet it. She shook her head.

“Why won’t you believe it?” Karen moved closer, hesitantly at first, but with increasing determination. She stood in front of Elektra, looking searchingly into her eyes. Elektra drew her breath in sharply as Karen’s gaze flicked down to her lips and back.

Elektra felt heat climb up her spine, knowing what was about to happen. She was shocked by just how much she _wanted_ it. Karen had managed to crisscross her way into Elektra’s deepest depths, and now there was no way out that wasn’t hopelessly tangled with inconvenient emotion.

The first brush of Karen’s lips was light — _please?_ Elektra couldn’t stop herself from answering with a brush of her own — _yes_.

And then Karen was kissing her with intent, cupping her jaw and leaning in hard. Karen’s mouth tasted faintly of peppermint, of promises. Her kisses were warm, and hungry, and real.

They had shared a bed twice, but that had always been about their grief, about finding some small measure of comfort together. No matter what it stirred inside Elektra, it could all be explained away in the bright light of day.

This was different. This time, Karen’s body so close to hers wasn’t meant to soothe, but to inflame. And it filled Elektra with a yearning so strong that her chest burned. She pulled away, her eyes darting around wildly as she tried to catch her breath.

“You shouldn’t—” Elektra choked out, her voice thick. “This person you think you know... she isn’t really me. You have to understand that. Everything I did — it was all for him.”

Karen bit her lip, her eyes imploring.

“I still feel it, all the time. It sings in me. The bloodlust, the rush of the kill. Sometimes it’s all I know.”

Elektra searched Karen’s face for fear, for disgust, but all she could see was pain.

“I know what it’s like to—”

“No.” Elektra cut her off. She didn’t want to be Karen’s confessor. She didn’t deserve to be. And whatever pale sin Karen was about to offer up would only make Elektra’s look darker in comparison. “Maybe you know what it’s like to have blood on your hands. The kind that doesn’t come clean. But you don’t know what it is to be a weapon. To have generations of death flooding through your veins. You can’t know that. It’s mine alone.”

“But you can keep fighting it. You can control it. Just—let me help you.”

“We’ll do it together? I’ve tried that before. It only leads to regret.” Elektra climbed back up on the ledge.

“So...what? You’re just going to give up?”

“No.” Elektra smiled grimly. “I’m going to fight. On my own.”

She leapt.

* * *

Making her way to the ground was easy enough — Elektra was confident she had disappeared into the shadows before Karen was even able to look over the edge.

But now that she’d made her dramatic exit, she realized she had nowhere to go.

She had spent weeks of borrowed time taking shelter in Matthew’s bed. She had found refuge once in Karen’s. But now she had nowhere to sleep. It was fitting.

After Elektra had learned Greek — her first duty as Hugo Natchios’ freshly minted daughter — she had discovered in one of her books that the ancient “alektra” meant "bedless,” and the knowledge hit her like a bullet to the chest. She had the perfect name for a girl who never belonged anywhere.

The bed where she slept in the ambassador’s residence belonged to the part that she played. The various cots and pallets she’d slept on in Stick’s care had always been temporary. She had never had a bed, never had a real home where they knew who she was and what she could do and loved her anyway.

But Stick had no knowledge of ancient Greek — he knew only the common legends. He talked endlessly of the Spartans, and Elektra was sure her name had come from the woman of myth who cried out for vengeance after her father’s death. Perhaps Stick had somehow expected Elektra to avenge him after his war inevitably claimed him.

Well, the joke was on him, then. She’d been the one to kill him.

_I am the shape you made me, Stick. Filth teaches filth._

The very thought of Stick made her move faster, urged her to the one place she might be able to find a bit of solace. A place where she could say goodbye, if only in absentia.

When she got to Fogwell’s Gym, she made her way into the ring and stretched out on the canvas, looking up at the ceiling, which was already being touched by the first light of dawn. Elektra expected the memories to wash over her again, but instead her mind was a bottleneck. All she could think of was Matthew standing at the top of the stairs in his black mask, of Karen’s kisses on a wind-swept roof. Her thoughts were stubbornly stuck in the present, and she couldn’t bear to think about what it meant.

_Cut them loose._

Everything inside of her felt slashed to ribbons, and she craved nothing more than oblivion.

She slept.

* * *

Somehow, despite the ample sunlight and the relative discomfort of her resting place, many hours passed before Elektra awoke. She was grateful. She had no plan yet for where to go or what to do next. She could only hope nightfall would bring the clarity she craved.

Restless, she fell into the routine she had often used while training in the weeks following the collapse of Midland Circle. She punched, she kicked, she stretched. She took advantage of the locker room facilities and the change of clothes she’d stowed away. And then she found herself walking slowly around the gym, looking at each piece of memorabilia on the walls.

Most of it she passed over without much interest, but she took her time with anything that mentioned Matthew’s father. One poster advertised Battlin’ Jack’s bout with Carl “Crusher” Creel — the one that Elektra knew had decided his fate.

The photograph beneath it caught her eye. Not only because the man featured in it had to be Matthew’s father, but also because there appeared to be a _nun_ standing near him on the side of the ring. Elektra stared at the woman’s face. Perhaps Jack Murdock had been even more religious than his son, if he had a sister on standby during his fights. Did she pray for his victory?

But the oddity soon faded from Elektra’s mind as she focused on the elder Murdock. He looked older than Elektra had pictured him. But the ferocity on his face was nothing if not familiar.

Battlin’ Jack’s legacy, in Matthew’s telling, at least, had been his insistence on always getting back up, no matter how often he was knocked down. His son was like him — perhaps Elektra should have known all along that Matthew wouldn’t stay down. But it was Karen who had kept faith.

Looking at Jack’s face — the vitality, the fire — almost made Elektra wish that she had been the one to go back and finish off Roscoe Sweeney. Stick had insisted on taking care of it himself. Cleaning up her mess, in his words. At the time, Elektra wanted only to get away from the whole sordid business, so she didn’t object.

She thought she was being so clever with Matthew, acting the part of her namesake, encouraging a son to kill his father’s murderer. The mythical Elektra’s brother ended his own mother’s life in retribution. Surely Matthew would relish the chance to rid the world of the common thug like Sweeney.

But Matthew had been unwilling to surrender to the dark impulses inside him. She’d fallen in love with his light, but she still didn’t understand it. Sweeney would only have gotten what he deserved for stealing Matthew’s father away from him.

Elektra felt a black fire rising — for Matthew, robbed of Jack; for herself, stolen from a family she never knew; for that woman in the darkness two nights ago, screaming as violent men tried to take her father away.

Elektra squared her shoulders, finally feeling the surge of purpose she’d been wanting. She was a weapon, but she answered only to herself now — not to Stick, or the Hand, or even Matthew’s honor. She could serve her own aims. She could cut down anything that remained of the Hand, to ensure she would never be enslaved again. And she could wreak vengeance on the type of evil that would separate a father from his child. She would start by finding those men.

All Elektra knew was that she was looking for a dry cleaner. The side of the van had advertised “Rymon Cable Repair,” but the inside was full of plastic bags of clothing, not cables and wires. It was probably too much trouble for them to get a fresh white murder van for the occasion.

Elektra knew she’d remember the faces of the men she’d fought — not to mention, one of them had been missing half a finger.

How many dry cleaners could there be in Hell’s Kitchen?

* * *

The answer, of course, was many. But Elektra worked her way through them, starting at the site of the attack and radiating outward.

She’d jingled into about a half-dozen shops before she spotted a familiar face. But it was unmistakable. She watched carefully as the man gave a customer change, and her eyebrows quirked triumphantly. The missing finger. She slunk back out into the rapidly fading twilight, finding a hidden corner to tie her scarf over her face.

This was going to be fun.

The basement of Chris French Cleaners was laden with evidence. There were drugs, and guns, and a lone chair in a chain-link cage. The sound of footsteps on the stairs made Elektra smile. She concealed herself amid the hanging clothes, ready to pounce on the miscreants when they least expected it.

But it wasn’t Missing Finger or his friend who were approaching. Elektra held her breath, wondering if Matthew was aware of her presence. But before she could get a read on him, the ringing of boots on the cement steps demanded her attention, and everything was plunged into darkness.

Matthew was playing electrician — she heard him close the fuse box.

“Was the mood lighting really necessary?” she asked slyly as she slammed her fist into the first goon’s face. Somehow it was possible to talk to him like this, when it was the two of them in action, united against a common foe. They’d always danced well.

“I wasn’t counting on having backup.” Matthew flipped the second goon roughly to the floor.

“Backup? This is my fight,” Elektra said indignantly, slamming her elbow into Missing Finger’s stomach. “I started it. I’m here to finish it.”

She pulled out her blade.

“We’re calling the cops,” Matthew grunted as he knocked Missing Finger’s friend out cold. “That woman deserves the chance to identify her father’s attackers.”

Elektra sighed, but she wasn’t going to argue. Not now. Not when they were so close to the end.

After Matthew placed the call, they headed to the hospital. Elektra waited outside the window while Matthew went inside. He’d tried to convince her to go in, since the woman would remember her from the attack, but Elektra wasn’t the She-Devil anymore. She was after vengeance, not glory.

“Thank God for you!” Elektra heard the woman say.

“He didn’t help you,” Matthew replied. “We did.”

Elektra headed for the roof — their rendezvous point. She met Matthew there with raised eyebrows. “Dramatic much?”

He actually smiled. “You—you’re you again. You’re really Elektra.”

“And you’re really Matthew. Always going after lost causes.”

“I was thinking of it more as unfinished business.”

“It’s long past time we finished it,” Elektra said, her spirits sinking as her gaze dropped to the cement under her feet. “Take care of her, Matthew.”

“Who?” he asked, taken aback.

“Karen.” Elektra wasn’t happy about the way her voice sounded on that name. Like she was standing there naked.

Matthew chuckled — an unhappy sound. “I don’t think she’s even speaking to me.”

From their brief exchange on Matthew’s roof, it had been clear that Karen was angry with him. But she'd come around. Once Matthew was in your heart, there was no getting him out. Elektra had run halfway around the world, had stayed out of New York for years at a time, and never succeeded in forgetting him, in loving him even a little less. She took in a shaky breath.

“She will,” Elektra said. “She loves you. Much better than I ever could. She has a soul. If I ever did, I burned it out of me a very long time ago.”

Matthew pulled off his mask. “That’s not true. Even when your memories were missing and you didn’t know who I was, you couldn’t kill me.”

Elektra swallowed. “I killed Stick.”

She knew, if nothing else, this must damn her in Matthew’s reckoning. _He knew that killing me would have been your point of no return_ , Stick had told her so long ago. _He thinks you’re worth saving. Earn that._

And she’d tried. But, in the end, she’d crossed that line. There was no way back now.

“Stick knew what the Hand was capable of,” Matthew said sadly. “There were ways he could have ensured that they couldn’t bring you back. Maybe he wanted them to do it. To justify his war, or because, in his own twisted way, he loved you too much to lose you.” Matthew shook his head, his voice thickening. “But no matter how it happened, now you have a second chance. You can start over. No matter what you did before that building fell — it doesn’t mean you should ask Danny to…”

“I’m beyond that now,” Elektra said dismissively. “But I’m still what I was destined to be. A monster.”

"Elektra, you saved me on that rooftop. You gave your life for me. There’s no greater love than that.”

"I played right into their hands! They needed to kill me to bring me back as their weapon."

"But you beat them. You’re finally you again — not a brainwashed Hand zombie. You don’t have to be what they made you, or even what Stick wanted you to be. You’re free.”

“I can’t trust it. How could this be?”

Matthew huffed out a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. Maybe when the Hand lost access to the source of their power, it weakened their hold on you.” He gentled. “Or maybe it was..." He trailed off, wetting his lips so they glistened in the night.

Elektra felt a jolt through her body. "What?" she said, derision rising into her tone. "True love’s kiss?"

Matthew’s smile was back again. "All the rest of this is mythical. Fairy tales. Why not?" He reached out and touched her face tenderly.

“Matthew,” she said disbelievingly. “You can’t still—”

“Elektra,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. And she closed her eyes as his lips met hers with a sweetness so deep she couldn’t find the end of it. She sank into the kiss for a long moment. But then confusion and guilt twisted in her gut, and she pulled away.

"Let that be the last one,” she said. “Let that be goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m playing a little fast and loose with the Season 3 timeline, so I hope it’s not too confusing! This chapter adapts scenes from 3x02 Please.
> 
> This chapter also contains several references to Anne Carson’s translation of Sophocles’ _Elektra_ — including the meaning of “alektra” and the “filth” line in italics. (The title of this story is also drawn from the Carson translation.)
> 
> The photo of Jack and Maggie on the wall at Fogwell’s Gym is visible in 3x09 Revelations.
> 
> Thanks to anyone still sticking with me on this!


End file.
